If Release is what You Need, Just Come to Me
by Mrs Don Draper
Summary: Schultz tells Django of his frowned upon sexual preferences. Django would be lying if he said he didn't think it was odd, but then again, what isn't odd about his entire situation? *Attempted Rape, Period-Typical Homophobia*


He lets out a deep moan when Django finally enters him. His hands clench desperately in the blankets under his as he strives to relax his body in order for them to proceed. The feeling of another person inside him is maddening and makes it hard to breathe. He's wanted this. He's wanted this for so long that now that it's happening, he almost doesn't know what to do with himself. It's not easy being someone like him. It's not easy finding someone who won't expose him as a sexual deviant. He could be hanged for this, both of them could. He's thankful for the surrounding wilderness.

Django molds himself to King's back, holds his shoulders in gentle hands, and buries his face into the side of his neck. He won't move until the Doc says it's ok. He'll hold him like this as long as he needs, though Schultz's warm body admittedly makes that difficult. Schultz is a good man. He wants to give this to him.

King squirms a bit under him, feeling overwhelmed by Django's affection and care. He tenses a bit in apprehension of what he's asking for and hears Django grunt behind him. Django holds him steady and murmurs to him like he's a frightened animal. But his voice is quite soothing and eventually has the desired effect. He finally lets his muscles relax.

"You alright now?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. You can move now."

If he sounds verklempt, Django doesn't say anything. He just eases himself in and out of the doctor slowly, trying to keep him relaxed and giving him what he needs. Never in his lifetime did he think he would ever want to give a white man _anything_. Let alone _this_. This is something he hadn't even thought of until the night Schultz, uncharacteristically timid, brought it up to him over a plate of rabbit. He told him about his feelings. How he cared about him and would never make him do anything he didn't want to do, and how he should probably just forget he ever said anything about it. Red-faced, he had put his head in his hands to hide his shame at admitting what he was.

Django would be lying if he said he wasn't taken aback by this admission. Folks like King never came to happy ends. He had known some fellow slaves who had met untimely ends when they had been caught kissing behind woodshed. The result had been gruesome to say the least.

"That why you ain't married?" he had asked.

"Quite frankly, yes. I apologize for telling you all of this. You don't need my problems on top of yours."

Django had let the unfortunate implications of the doctor's words go by without comment.

"No, I don't. But that don't mean we ain't still friends."

Schultz picked his head up from his hands, looking relieved. He had been worried that since Django was technically now a free man that he would leave him the first chance he got. He let out a breath he didn't even realize he had been holding.

That conversation had been a few months ago, and since then Schultz had entertained a few other men like him, asking Django to keep watch. At first the noises through the wall had disconcerted him. He was used to hearing a woman's whimpers mingled with a moaning man, but this was something else. Schultz, as in everything else, was vocal. Django would sit with his back to the wall or door they were fucking behind with a shotgun across his knees, listening to Schultz make his way from English to German, gasping and grunting his pleasure. He tried to ignore the warm feeling he got in his stomach when he knew Schultz was close, how he maybe got a little hard when Schultz came. At first it was odd. His whole goddamned situation was odd. But then he sort of got used to it. He got used to being able to tell when Schultz was feeling good. It made him feel good too. Sometimes he would close his eyes and think about what King would look like just before coming. Maybe he'd look less tired and anxious. He'd probably look real happy. And each time, he'd ignore that his pants felt a bit tight and pretend he wasn't pressing the heel of his palm against his crotch to relieve some pressure. He would silently wait it out. It was fine. It was all going to be ok.

Until the incident, that is. There was one occasion where they started off fucking with the usual gasps and moans, but things quickly turned into something else. He heard King repeatedly tell the man he was with to stop, but the man had called him a "dirty bitch" and continued doing whatever was making King want him to stop. It had taken him all of ten seconds to decide to kick open the door and beat the man over the head with his gun, knocking him unconscious and off Schultz.

When he was sure the stranger was out cold, he turned to Schultz who was shakily pulling his trousers back up. There were already purpling finger-shaped bruises on his hips. Django panted from the adrenalin surging through him and stared at his friend, unsure of what to say.

He settled on, "We should probably get out of here before he wakes up."

Schultz couldn't help but agree. King winced when he bent over to pick up his torn shirt, but put it on anyway since he couldn't very well go about with it. Django shrugged out of his coat and handed it to his friend. Schultz took it gratefully, and they silently made their way out of the shanty on the edge of town and back to their campsite. If King slept closer to him that night, Django didn't say anything.

It wasn't until the next time Schultz asked him to come to town with him for a "meeting" that Django put his foot down.

"Yeah, and if he tries something like that other man? I'm a freed slave. Not every town is gonna let me sit outside your door with a gun so you can do as you please. I won't always get to be there if someone tries to hurt you. How am I supposed to protect you then? What happens to you hurts me too. I couldn't stand it if someone—What happens to Hilde?"

Schultz was surprised to hear Django say so much at one time, to hear how much he cared about him.

"Django, I know you are right. Truly. I understand that my...urges are frowned upon, and that you might feel that way as well. I'm asking you not to take this away from me. Please. Please come with me tonight."

The sincerity in his plea tugged at Django's heartstrings. Poor Doc looked about as nervous as a newborn filly.

"What about me?"

"Of course we will find your wife. I was earnest in my wish to help you. As soon as we have the money, we will fetch her, and you'll never have to see me again. I promise this, Siegfried."

"No, I mean...I could do what those men do. I could...I could try."

Schultz took on a serious expression.

"Django, you don't owe me anything. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You're a free man now."

"I know. That's why I'm offering by myself. That man hurt you, and I don't want that to happen again."

That, Django supposed, was the short version of how they got to this point.

"You alright now?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm just fine. You can move now."

Django thrusts in a bit deeper every time, listening closely for sounds both good and bad. Django wants to make King feel as safe King makes him feel. It's a show of trust and while it pains him to think of it, he can only hope and pray that Hilde will understand. That she'll see how important Schultz really is to him.

He presses in again and doesn't stop until he's all the way in. King's body is so warm, inside and out. His body accepts him totally, and the warmth in the pit of his stomach starts to spread throughout the rest of him as he begins a steady pace.

"Feel so good, King. You're taking all of me. I'm in you so deep," he murmurs.

Schultz lets out a stuttering breath at his words. It's true. He can feel him inside, sending little shocks of pleasure when he hits that spot inside him. It's not on every stroke, but it is still intimate. More intimate than the other company he had been keeping. The others had been selfish with him, taking and taking and taking. Holding him down and using cursory lubricant and only bringing him off after they had made him beg. He had felt cheap and used, but it was the only comfort he could find and told himself it was enough.

Django is different. He's holding him, but he's not hold him down. He's talking to him, but he's not mocking him or calling him cruel, cruel names. He's inside him, but he's not hurting or bruising. So while this might not be the earth-shattering type of intercourse, it melts him in those other ways. This time he can allow himself to let go completely and just _feel_ without worrying about the consequences. He can listen to Django's voice and not feel ashamed of himself.

He releases his right hand's grip on the blanket and reaches around to grasp at Django's hip, feeling the strength in his thigh and buttock, the control, the wholeness of his body. Django presses a kiss to the side of his throat and reaches his own hand down to lace their fingers together as they fuck until they both know they can hold back no longer.

"Gonna come now, Doc. What do you want me to do?"

"Don't stop. Just keep going. I want you to."

With a squeeze of their hands, Django comes with a grunt thrusting until oversensitization sets in, and he frees his right from Schultz's clutch to jerk the doctor to his own completion.

He rolls off of King's back and onto his own, panting hard and hoping he had done everything right. Hoping that it was enough to keep the doctor from seeking help from the wrong kinds of people. The kinds of people who would hurt him and break him until the fucking was doing more harm than good.

"You alright now?" he asks again.

King reaches over to take his hand again.

"Yes. Yes, I'm just fine."


End file.
